


a blanket of red

by Nevospitanniy



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: (could be), Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, No beta we die like mne, Post-DotO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevospitanniy/pseuds/Nevospitanniy
Summary: You touched me inside of my cageBeneath my shirt your hands embraced meCome to me feathered and frayedFor I am the ugliest prey*It’s odd: they aren’t friends. The Outsider could barely be considered a business partner, the one Emily had inherited from her father. And yet, there’s no one who knows the tapestry of their collective pain better than him; after all, he’d seen every stitch and put more that a couple in himself.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hello, Corvo.”

His eyes are pale green and Corvo drops the tea he’s holding.

*

Later, wiping his shoes, Corvo will find many words he could and should have said, but right now he just inelegantly stares holes into the man’s face like a mute.

_An imposter / a real deal / an enemy / a ploy / he’s breathing / dangerous / safe_

The Outsider ( _undoubtedly / an imposter_ ) has the very same cadence about him, as if spun from the Void itself. He’s not wearing his own clothes and they look wrong; the jacket is of a simpler cut and fit, made for someone else. Black pants, stuffed inside the legs of his boots, stretch over knobby knees as he squats to pick up the cup.

“I did not expect a parade, but say something.” He murmurs into the cup, rubbing the rim with his thumb, and the bizarre unbelievability of it all slaps Corvo into talking.

“Who are you?”

The Outsider sighs, rolling his eyes ( _green eyes / real / fake_ ) and shifts his weight to a different hip. He is short, young and his lips are wind-chapped.

“Always the Spymaster. Fine,” he thrusts the mug at Corvo’s chest, who grabs it absentmindedly. It’s warm and a bit of tea spills over the edge, leaving his fingertips wet. “The first time you’ve heard Delilah’s voice where Jessamine’s was before, you wanted to stomp on the Heart, because it felt like the final desecration. You think the hounds can smell the Void on you. You hate milk. Emily’s favorite color used to be white, but now it’s purple and you secretly find it funny. For a while you’ve had a pet rat, but the plague made you afraid to keep one. Shall I go on?”

He looks genuinely annoyed, tapping his foot in impatience and squinting at the light behind Corvo’s back. He’s human ( _no he’s not_ ), human, human. He’s alive.

Corvo can’t help reaching out with his free hand. The fabric of the collar is thick, a bit worn around the edges, a pale sternum peeking out between open buttons. His skin feels exactly like skin ought to and Corvo lets out a nervous breath. He should stop touching, but he can’t, palm wandering up the column of his neck, right to the spot where his pulse disturbs the pristine calm of his body. The Outsider frowns, leaning away a bit, but doesn’t say anything, just puts his own hand onto Corvo’s once Marked one, gently lifting it off and peering behind into an empty corridor.

“We should probably come inside.”

*

“So, Billie Lurk.”

The Outsider ( _not anymore / new name, new name_ ) nods distractedly, studying Corvo’s room. His nose bridge is red from the sun.

“Indeed. She had both the opportunity and every right to kill me, but she didn’t.” He frowns, pursing his lips. “I’m still unsure as to why.”

Falling silent, the Outsider sits down in a nearest chair and Corvo is still standing there, pressing a teacup to his chest.

His presence feels like a play, a facsimile of the real Outsider, who is still as far away and untouchable ( _you’ve touched him / not him_ ) as he ever was. Corvo’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t, and the time stretches and bends under the growing weight of his anxiety.

“Does the Empress know you’re here?” He finally chimes in after minutes of silence. Considering a strange man made it into his chambers without so much as a second glance, the answer seems obvious. But then again, who knows what the Outsider can and cannot do these days.

Rubbing his neck, the Outsider nods again.

“Yes, paid a visit first thing after coming to Dunwall, a carriage had been waiting for me. I have a strong suspicion Billie had sent Emily a letter, warning of my no doubt imminent arrival.” He huffs, amused. “I used to see into people’s souls, so it’s very disconcerting when someone does that to you.”

“She surely appreciates the irony.”

The Outsider lightly shrugs, jacket rustling.

“Billie Lurk has been through enough to transcend irony, I reckon.” The Outsider casually drops intimate knowledge of Lurk as if they are old friends, but all she did was call him an asshole and not slit his throat. He _hates_ it.

At Corvo’s beckoning, the Outsider tells his story. It’s disjointed and overly detailed, more of an impression than a progression, sometimes making little sense, stopping and starting at strange places. His whole body is a taut string he hopelessly tries to relax and either doesn’t know how to yet or anymore. If this what godhood is - small and fragile, sitting in a borrowed chair – Corvo doesn’t want to watch.

“Are you hungry?”

The Outsider throws a quick glance around, as if he’s not truly sure Corvo was talking to him, and, not finding anyone else, smiles.

It’s a sight to behold. The Outsider’s humanity suddenly hits home in the way his grounded feet never achieved, that’s how warm and real his face becomes. His teeth are regular human teeth, not whale incisors. His eyes are regular human eyes, not black and inky. Corvo’s mind tries not to rip itself in two, to reconcile him and Him and fails.

“I could eat.”

Dining room is out of the question, so Corvo calls for a late night meal to be brought into his rooms. The maid doesn’t comment, in fact, she doesn’t speak at all, but slides her eyes over the Outsider, still in the same chair with his palms squeezed between his thighs, and her nostrils flare in obvious disapproval.

“That would be all,” Corvo dismisses her coldly and she leaves, eyes moving between the two of them one last time. Today has given him a headache. Frankly, he is up way past his usual bedtime.

The Outsider timidly grabs a slice of bread and rips it into smaller pieces, swallowing them quickly; Corvo abstains from the food, pouring himself tea he was so rudely denied the first time instead.

“How did you reach Dunwall?”

“By boat,” the Outsider answers simply, shoveling fish salad into his mouth with an impressive speed and dexterity. “I may or may not have stolen money from a merchant to buy passage on a whaling ship.”

Corvo sneers.

“Let me guess, he is a despicable man and you, knowing that from-” he waves a free hand around, denoting the Outsider’s previous vocation “-decided it was no big deal?”

“No, he dropped his wallet on the street and I picked it up. How bold of you to assume I cared about the affairs of most people enough to remember them.” He wipes at his lips with his sleeve, ignoring the napkin, and sighs contentedly. “This was a great meal. Thank you, Corvo.”

“I didn’t make it,” Corvo shrugs, “but you’re welcome. I’ll pass your praise onto the kitchen.”

“Please, don’t, you’re already going to enjoy the rumors.”

Corvo doesn’t ask what rumors, because he’s perfectly aware of how this looks. Strangers don’t just appear in royal quarters unless they have been cordially invited first. That maid was definitely the wrong choice for such a venture, and Corvo wrinkles his nose in distaste at the morning gossip. He doesn’t care for it much.

“Did Emily offer you lodging?”

The Outsider ( _wrong name, wrong name_ ) shakes his head, and then unexpectedly flushes chin to ears.

“Well- That’s not true, she did. She said I was always welcome in the Tower, but I got a feeling she wasn’t exactly sure what to do with me and hoped to push the responsibilities of actually handling me onto someone else.” He directs a pointed glance at Corvo. “I am annoyed once again by this ability others seem to possess of predicting my actions and decisions.”

“Spare a thought for the rest of us, there is comfort in being predictable. Come on,” Corvo motions for the Outsider to stand, “we will settle your living situation more permanently tomorrow, but there are rooms on this floor that are definitely not used for anything.” He gently places his teacup on the table, so it wouldn’t break today after all, and opens the door.

The Outsider follows him closely. His steps are weightless and near silent, further dampened by the rug. His hair isn’t slicked to his forehead anymore, gently bouncing as he walks and occasionally falling into his eyes ( _not black, not black_ ). His shoulders are less broad, even if an over large jacket makes them look wider. He looks mundane and beautiful.

Corvo tries a couple of doors; first turns out to be locked (“I don’t want to bother anyone for the key at this hour”), the second and third one are storage rooms, the fourth one, however, opens to an older section of the maid quarters. Three bunk beds are empty and stripped of bedding, but there is a stack of sheets on the table, along with an inexplicable pile of mittens.

After Delilah, this wing got damaged the most. At Empress’ insistence, while repairs are underway, the Tower staff occupies another wing, so they don’t have to breath in the dust, interrupt the construction and endanger themselves by walking over planks that cover holes in the floor. Royal Protectors were not excluded from that proposition, but, as stubborn as he is, Corvo refused to move, even temporarily. He said he just steps over the weak spots and doesn’t run in the hallways. Emily rubbed her forehead and shooed him out of the Throne room, yelling “If you fall and break your neck, it’s going to be your own damn fault!”

Thick cracks zigzag through the far wall, but the room is clean, warm and quiet. It will have to do for a night.

“You’re very kind, Corvo. To be honest, I wasn’t certain if you would be even glad to see me, all things considered.” The Outsider smiles with that careful guarded smile from before and brushes past Corvo inside the quarters. Thumbing through the linens, he yanks two sheets out and starts making his bed with precision.

The bottom of Corvo’s stomach drops out. He swallows thickly and clears his throat, looking at his slightly stained shoes.

“Me neither,” he mutters, mostly to himself, and sees the Outsider huff from the corner of his eye, plopping down at the cot. He sighs with that bone-deep exhaustion people feel after long journeys and there aren’t many that were longer than his. His eyes ( _not black_ ) slip closed, lashes painting dirty streaks in shadows under.

“I’m sorry this is so barren. I can draw a whale and stick it to the door, if that helps. You know, like the good old times.”

The joke shrivels up as soon as it leaves Corvo’s mouth. His nose fills with the thick sweet stench of a weeper corpse, blackened and bloated, face down in the river, with white maggots wriggling nauseatingly inside an open wound on his head. This image is so vivid and tangible he almost retches. Muscle memory betrays him and his left hand clenches into a fist.

It’s been years. He should definitely know better.

“Were they ever?” The Outsider asks quietly, opening his eyes and turning his head to the side. His thin fingers tug absentmindedly at the thread sticking out of the sheet’s seam. He’s not looking at Corvo; he’s not looking at anything at all.

“Good? No, I guess not. I’m sorry,” Corvo blurts out. He feels the burning need to apologize, even if he has no idea what for. He feels sadness and pity. He feels shame. He feels _things_.

The Outsider inhales and snaps to attention, ripping the thread off.

“I’m sure you have many questions, but I can answer them tomorrow. Some rest is in order for me now.”

Corvo watches him give his pillow a half-hearted punch, one tiny feather going airborne and descending softly onto the floor. He looks listless and distant, enshrined, like he might disappear at any moment and Corvo has a foolish thought to make sure he doesn’t.

“You know where to find me. Come as early or as late as you want.”

The Outsider nods, leaning down and unbuckling his boots.

“Good night,” Corvo adds, almost as an afterthought. He closes the door with a soft click and quickly walks to his room, alone, but with far less grace and far more noise.

His chambers are clean of food once again; Corvo doesn’t know if them being empty upon the maid’s arrival will dull the rumors down or give them extra fire. He strips and crawls into bed, it’s huge and soft and Corvo can’t stop thinking of a hard narrow cot four doors down.

He doesn’t dream of the Void, but he does dream of whales. They are dying, suspended in air or waterless ocean, raining black blood onto his upturned stunned face. He coughs his lungs out, but still drowns, splashing, full to the brim like a morbid vase.

 


	2. Chapter 2

His first visitor is, surprisingly, Emily. She’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, jaws locked wide around a green apple. She pries it off, chewing the huge chunk left in her mouth.

“Hello, father. Where’s the Outsider? The maids told each other you’ve had dinner together.” She shoulders her way inside the room with no care for his privacy. To be fair, she never had any; the only difference is, her adorable persnickety manner of ten years old suits adult women ill.

“Gossip is un-empress-like. Don’t believe everything you hear,” Corvo shuts the door behind her, while she wanders off to the window. He’s not even dressed properly yet. Emily grins, wiping a runaway drop of juice from her chin with her sleeve.

“That’s not a word. So, where is he? Yesterday I half-thought I was going mad when he arrived. Meagan, or is it Billie now? Anyhow, if it wasn’t for her letter, I might have turned down his request for an audience. Imagine that.” She finishes her apple and, after a second of deliberation, chomps down on the core as well.

The daylight is too cutting and bright, snaking its way inside his eye and coiling into a gnawing headache. He can hear the dull bustle of the city. The scroop of Emily’s clothing moving together. Corvo drops his face in his hands, fighting the urge to crawl back to bed. His skin feels rubbed raw.

He hasn’t had nightmares for a while now, not since Emily returned from Karnaca. While he may have been spared most of the action, stitching Dunwall back together has given him plenty to see: a single mass burial is one too many for anybody and Corvo had the unfortunate privilege to witness dozens. Delilah had also made a few posthumous appearances in his dreams, all of them memorable, for the lack of a better word. As if the statues and the paintings were not enough.

“Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

Corvo huffs. There is no adequate way to explain the manner in which his insides seems knotted and squirming like a rat king, stretched yet spasmed, so he just grabs his trousers from a chair and starts putting them on. Emily’s concern is adorable, even seemingly making the pain recede a little bit.

“I’m old. Live till my age and then pass judgement on people’s visage.”

Shaking her head, Emily sighs.

“You’re going senile, it finally happened. I was giving you another decade, but it must be all the stress.” She knows he’s changing the topic, but graciously lets it slide, for now. As soon as Corvo closes his belt, there’s a knock on the door.

“Coming!” Emily chirps in a sing-song voice, dashing to the entrance, and Corvo has never put on a shirt faster in his life.

The Outsider doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see the Empress. He smiles politely _(not the same smile / not yours)_ and points to Corvo, looming behind Emily’s back.

“Good morning. Glad to see you in good health, Empress. Am I too early?”

Before Emily can even open her mouth, Corvo pushes her away from the door gently with his shoulder and comes face to face with the Outsider. He looks marginally better than yesterday; dark circles not as dark, sunken cheeks seemingly not as hollow. One side of his hair is more disheveled and Corvo wants to run a brush through it.

“Not at all. Would you join us for breakfast?”

“I would,” the Outsider nods, giving Corvo a quick once-over and stopping on his half-tucked in shirt. Corvo snorts, hastily stuffing the other part into his waistband, and can swear the Outsider is laughing, even though his lips don’t move.

Grabbing Corvo’s sleeve, Emily forcefully drags him away from the door jamb and steps past the Outsider out into the hallway.

“We are not going far. Follow me, please,” she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and walks away at a brisk pace. Her left hand is covered with a strip of fabric; it’s not the same one, but it’s close enough for people to think this is some sort of family style quirk. Serkonos, they say. Southern worker charm, they say. Miner chic, they say.

Corvo looks at it and knows exactly how it feels against the skin.

They walk half a step behind the Empress, the Outsider’s shoulder bumps into Corvo’s.

“After Delilah, she became much more hands-on with the running of the Tower and befriended all the staff. Care to share what moved her this much?” Corvo conspiratorially whispers. The Outsider’s breath hitches in what could be a stifled giggle.

“It is not my story to tell. But when you stick to the shadows, you hear plenty of things that make you reconsider your position in this world.”

“Since when is anyone’s story not yours to tell?”

The Outsider scrunches his nose in a wordless _mea culpa_ , and Corvo can’t even be mad at his cavalier admittance.

“She also seemed to have acquired an insatiable appetite for gossip and putting her nose where it doesn’t belong. You’re a horrible influence on my child.”

“Oh?” The Outsider’s brows jump up to his wonky fringe in a terribly unconvincing display of surprise. His whole body vibrates with delight. This is fun for him, Corvo thinks. He is having fun.

“All the disgusting little skills and habits I picked up during my tenure as your favorite spectacle are mine to live with, and I don’t know what did the two of talk about, but my daughter should’ve slapped you the second you offered her anything. I taught her better.”

“You are exceedingly funny, Corvo, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” the Outsider picks up the pace and opens the dining room door for Emily. She beams at him.

“They don’t,” Corvo grumbles, forced to open the door on his own.

The three of them eat in unintended silence: Emily is just really hungry, for some reason, and the Outsider is sampling a little bit of everything on the table with an unbridled joy of someone eating nothing but plain soup their entire life, so Corvo doesn’t dare to interrupt such an important process.

The Empress is the first to finish and the first to talk.

“So,” she pushes her plate away, pensive, “what do we call you? Can’t exactly go with the other one, you know. The Overseers would love to talk and I’m not one for bringing them people to torture.”

”Remind me to burn the Abbey one of these days, will you?” Corvo mutters between bites. The servants share glances but stay silent.

The Outsider chews his omelette thoroughly before answering.

“Name wise, I am not particular. Corvo did ask me to think about it, though.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “Of course he did. By the way, father,” she turns to Corvo, “how’s the new assignment?”

He grits his teeth and stabs an apple from a bowl with a knife, juice spurting out like milky blood.

“Going great. I love babysitting.” Corvo cuts out a slice and chomps down on it with far more vigor than is required, leg bouncing under the table with a quiet _thump thump thump_. Emily’s grin is reaching shit-eating levels.

“Well, you did so great the last time.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“That I am,” she concedes with a gracious little nod. Corvo doesn’t even know why do they keep joking about the Plague Years. It was the worst time of their lives, those who even survived. Maybe they hope one day it will not hurt.

“I do miss The Golden Cat though,” Corvo says eventually, “that was interesting.”

“Do you mean the whores or the cut tongues?” The Outsider chimes in. There is a playful glint in his eye, like he was sitting around waiting for the subject to swerve into the filth of the Plague. Emily’s smile wanes somewhat.

“You just can’t help yourself, now can you?”

“Both highly questionable decisions,” the Outsider continues, ignoring her, and looks right at Corvo this time, putting his utensils down.

“Oh, fuck you,” Corvo says without any real heat and stands up from behind the table. “Let’s go.”

The servants start collecting the food and dishes onto large trays. The Outsider grabs a grape from his plate and puts it into his mouth before it is taken away.

“Spare me your moralizing next time, if you would be so kind,” Emily mutters when the Outsider steps out after her into the corridor. “I think my father did the best he could under the circumstances you,” she pokes him in the chest, “put in motion.”

“Of course,” the Outsider replies with a polite smile, not an ounce of regret on his face. He is too likable for what he is, or was. Emily is well aware, unfortunately, so she just huffs and walks away, fixing the strip on her hand.

Corvo likes the Tower well enough, but he used to despise it. Between the people too cruel, skies too gloomy and weather too cold, he didn’t go out behind its walls much, keeping his company with the servants and Jessamine. It felt like a prison with the world’s prettiest guard. She would make Corvo follow her and point to people on the walls, oil paints catching the yellowish light of the chandeliers.

“This is my uncle,” she would say, “He’s dead. I never liked him, he drank too much. And this,” she would tug on his sleeve, despite knowing he’s already paying attention, “is my great-grandfather. Daddy told me he was a very good man. He’s also dead, you know.” Corvo knew.

Now he just keeps walking past those portraits, feeling them watch him with phantom eyes, but this time Jessamine’s eyes are up there, too. He doesn’t want her to see them together, he feels guilty ambling down these halls with a man _(not a man)_ who might as well have run a blade through her belly.

Emily stomps toward Corvo’s chambers and barrels inside without much pomp, as usual. His bed is made and the window is open but otherwise it looks the same.

“We may have a problem. People are talking,” Emily fires off as soon as the door closes. “The whole point of me knowing my servants was to avoid leaks, but it seems this Tower is a colander.”

Corvo can’t tell if the Outsider knew she was going to say this or if it’s just very difficult to impress him, but his expression of mild boredom is still there.

“Who is he?” she point to the Outsider; he pays her no mind. “Is he a spy? A friend? Why does nobody know who he is? Is he from Pandyssia, because of the whole, you know, eye thing? I need to have something prepared for people unless you want to explain to the High Overseer yourself what the spitting image of a heretical god is doing living in the imperial tower.”

This question seems difficult to answer and, frankly, Corvo doesn’t want to. He walks past Emily to close the window instead.

“Are you listening to me?” There is a note of offended panic in her voice. “Corvo! I- I don’t know, you try.”

The Outsider’s footsteps are still so very silent, but here he is. There is an strange manner to how he walks and stands. In the Void he preferred hovering just slightly above ground _(out of reach)_ , but now, under the tepid morning sun of Dunwall fighting its way inside the wood-covered room, his posture is wrong, like his ligaments stretch just a little bit more than human do, like his bones should crack when he moves, but they don’t.

He opens his mouth, but Corvo interrupts.

“I know, she has a point.” Emily says ‘thank you!’ from behind. “I’m just out of my depth here, and while I’m flattered by your choice of shelter, or should be, probably, I’m also confused by it.”

The Outsider leans his head to the side, studying the grouting of the glass panels.

“Most of my Marked are dead. Some by your hand.” He glances at Corvo, who pointedly ignores him. “Millennia have erased my family line and even if they wouldn’t have, well. Not much to go back to. In all honesty, I have only a vague recollection of my life before the Void and I did the most predictable thing after exiting it - I went to the last place that held something of relevance to me. Just so happened that both of you live in the same house.”

“Don’t try to guilt me over Daud or Delilah or Vera, please, I don’t appreciate it.”

“Never planned to, Corvo,” the Outsider shrugs, fingers assembling themselves into a lock. He looks off at a distance in the window and Corvo does, too. Dunwall, even miserably cold and smoggy, is still so very beautiful. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Corvo stares somewhere above the Outsider’s cheekbone and his mind is as quiet and empty as the Void.

Emily clears her throat in that very assertive manner she has inherited from her mother, but has no idea about.

“Gentlemen, we are yet to come to a conclusion of any kind.” She an Empress, which means she’s right. She also happens to be right, coincidentally, at this very moment.

The room is a little small, it seems, because the three of them take up all of Corvo’s chairs. Personally, he is surprised he even has more than one. Why would he need more than one? Who brought all these chairs in?

The Outsider takes the same low velvet stool as the last time; his tall lanky form looks silly in what was a vanity chair, probably, even though Corvo owns no vanity. Emily snatches a tall chair, a brother to Corvo’s own. They unwittingly sit in a semi-circle around the door, like they are waiting for someone to barge in at any moment.

“I think there is something wrong with me,” the Outsider says out of nowhere, wringing hands on his lap just as the Empress opens her mouth to speak. Corvo looks quizzically at Emily, who nervously scratches her Mark through the fabric. “Even since I left the Void, I’m forgetting things and my head hurts. This body,” he points to his stomach, “it’s too small.”

“What does that mean?” Emily leans forward, unblinking, putting her elbows on her knees. Her entire attention is on the Outsider, who shrivels away from it.

“I was big and now I am small,” he says like it’s the easiest thing to explain in the whole wide world, and to him, it might be. Corvo is convinced he gets it, but he also gets that he doesn’t get it in the slightest.

“Does the Void even exist anymore? Doesn’t it need someone, uh, inside?” Corvo asks, because this whole thing suddenly seems much _more_ than it did just a second ago. There was the Void and then there was him and where one started and the other ended was always a mystery to him. He may never know, now.

The Outsider smirks, more a spasm than a smile.

“Your Highness, does your Mark work?” He asks Emily instead. She nods, eyes flitting between them. “Here’s your answer. The Void is there, but I am... not.”

He looks so disarmingly sad, mourning his lost self with such raw unbridled intensity Corvo’s eyes water in the answering wave of despair. Emily is the most stunned he’d ever seen her be, aside from the unmentionable happenings of 16 years ago.

“You didn’t explain shit,” Corvo croaks out to break the silence, tight and stifling. The Outsider rubs his cheek and for a second he seems so tired, so old.

“I don’t- my position in this world is precarious. I have no wish to subject you to any danger, but neither Billie, nor I had a better idea than coming to Dunwall and, and hoping for a welcome. I have to say, you’ve exceeded my expectations once again, dear.”

“By doing what, not throwing you out? Not giving you up to the Abbey? Is your opinion of me truly that low?” Putting as much kindness in his words as he possibly can, Corvo scoffs, folding his arms on his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

It’s odd: they aren’t friends. The Outsider could barely be considered a business partner, the one Emily had inherited from her father. And yet, there’s no one who knows the tapestry of their collective pain better than him; after all, he’d seen every stitch and put more that a couple in himself.

“We would not leave you to fend for yourself,” Emily says. “I can’t speak for Corvo, but if it wasn’t for you, Delilah would’ve been an Empress, I would’ve been executed and my father would’ve decorated her room, at best. So, while we’re at it and since I have never said it before, thank you.”

The Outsider blushes high on his pallid cheeks, ruddy roses blooming under the thin skin and Corvo can almost see the blood vessels filling with blood. He thinks a tan would really suit him.

“In case you were wondering, I don’t hate you,” Corvo adds, shrugging. “A decade ago I may have hit you once or twice, but we _are_ in your debt. The least the Empire could do is help.”

His face relaxes.

“Oh, the Empire? I think the thing to do is be flattered.”

“You better,” Emily crosses her legs and puts the wayward strand of hair behind her ear again. 


	3. Chapter 3

When the Outsider was the bastard pulling at Corvo’s strings, revolting yet magnetic in his otherworldly grace, straddling the line between someone and something you should never trust, he was bad. More than once Corvo would walk the streets at dusk, wrapped in his coat up to the ears for warmth and a modicum of anonymity, and see a pale man in the corner of his eye; every time it felt like a hot punch to the chest and a slap to the face. His hand would close on its own accord to stop time for him to whip around and find a stranger – frozen in mid-movement, innocuous and, most importantly, not the Outsider. The real one undoubtedly amused himself, watching the spectacle of Corvo publicly losing his marbles.

Curnow, once a witness to this, patted him on the shoulder, cursing the soldier’s heart that affected him ever since the Plague too, and Corvo agreed because he didn’t know how to explain why every dark-haired street rat scared him so much.

The Outsider as a man is somehow worse. He is _weird_.

Everything about him is mildly disturbing, and people recognize his inhumanity without realizing it: they avoid him, change walking direction, leave rooms he enters. Servants flock together in the corridors of his and Corvo’s ( _their_ ) wing like frightened birds seeing a hawk, huddled masses of multiple limbs and white aprons, susurrus of their hushed whispering dragging after the Outsider everywhere he goes. Corvo and Emily are the notable exceptions to the rule.

They are the only only exceptions.

The cold shoulder of everyone around him leaves the Outsider to the company of his Marked; Corvo finds it hard to manage. Emily is permanently busy, increasingly so, and his own duties exceed even the unusual Spymaster-Royal Protector combination, making him responsible for and privy to any information that comes in or out of the Tower and Dunwall at large. Needless to say, the Outsider can’t visit his meetings with spies. Corvo wouldn’t mind, but his colleagues might, and assuring an already paranoid and suspicious crowd of his trustworthiness is more trouble than it’s worth.

He is a grown man ( _not_ _a_ _man_ ), so treating him like a child in a constant need of supervision is distasteful at least and iniquitous at worst. He is not inept, just strange, and his company is surprisingly pleasant, since he had seemingly left his cryptic and torpid manner behind in the Void, along with the solid black of his eyes. He thinks it’s an improvement and tells the Outsider as much.

“You’re really milking this, aren’t you?” the Outsider hisses with a smile, pouring them cups of tea. His designated quarters are a repurposed night guard station; they have removed the machinery and added a chest of drawers. Emily had offered a proper bedroom, but he refused. It’s on the other side of the hallway from Corvo’s own room; he is not-so-secretly satisfied with this arrangement and strongly suspects the Outsider knows this, as he always seems to know everything, even now.

“I sure am,” Corvo takes the proffered cup, toasting the Outsider with it. “You’ve given me so much grief with your opaque monologues, forgive me for enjoying myself.”

“Never,” he scoffs, trying his tea, and puts another sugar cube in.

He needs two things, no, three: a name, a hobby and friends who haven’t killed for him.

“I know, Corvo,” the Outsider deflects, taking a long sip. It is undoubtedly to busy his mouth with something while he thinks. “Murder forms bonds between people. Strong bonds, bonds they don’t like.”

“Taking lives at your command compels your Marked to defend you,” Corvo shrugs as if murder became such a mundane part of his life he can discuss it with at tea service with a man ( _not_ _a_ _man_ ) who watched him do it. Plainly speaking, it did. “Did you plan it this way or was your personal army merely a side effect of gift giving?”

“There is a difference between true loyalty and fear of losing my good graces. And besides, do you truly think I ever have had a need or a use for an army?” he gently raises his eyebrows, squinting. “I believe in free will, that’s why I never told anyone what to do with their powers. All they ever did was kill, anyway.”

There is a resignation and disappointment in his voice. Corvo wants to childishly ask ‘ _what_ _about_ _me?’_ , but his own hands are bloody up to the elbow. He did not ask Emily, because he didn’t have to; killers recognize each other easily enough.

“If the outcome is the same, why bother?”

“You should know better than most, our choices are not our own. They stop being personal as soon as they are done. There are always consequences.”

“Is your presence here a consequence?”

The Outsider carefully considers his answer for a long time, sitting cross-legged on the bed; their tea has gone cold. Corvo has politely brought one of his chairs here; he’s always the only visitor.

“It is, but I can’t ascribe fault for that to any one person. We all equally share the burden of me being alive.”

“Is it truly such a burden?” Corvo knows it’s not meant to be an offense, but he feels wounded regardless. 

“Yes,” the Outsider whispers. “Yes, it is.”

*

Corvo offers the name Mark and Emily laughs till she starts crying, high screeching bouts of laughter seizing her body. She wipes at her eyes, breakfast all but forgotten and gulps down an entire glass of water to calm down.

“I like it,” the Outsider nods, biting into a slice of bread.

Emily snorts water up her nose and laugh-coughs until Corvo stands up and smacks her on the back a couple of times.

*

If Corvo thought he was getting a lot of attention from the Outsider before, it’s nothing compared to now. He has lost a lot, but retained a lot, too. His steps are feather-light and rat-quiet, his unsettling insight remains, as does his ability to make Corvo do absolutely anything.

Corvo is terrified of the possibility, but the Outsider seemingly has everything he needs already. This power goes unused.

The Outsider is his faithful shadow, just like in the old days, when Corvo, running hot and running quick, crawled through Dunwall with an unseen jockey on his back, spurs egging him on, to the next guard, the next door, the next shrine. Only now everyone can see his shadow and the Outsider definitely preferred going invisible, if nothing else. He is an open wound, a bleeding gash, myrrh-streaming Void into the air around him.

Corvo protects the Outsider as much as he can from the Overseers’ inquisitive prying eyes and their obvious desire to lock him inside the Abbey and never let him out, but he can only do so much. The Outsider in his unrestrained unfiltered self turns heads, even if they turn away immediately, flustered and scared.

There are whispers, of the Empress and the cabal of magic, of rituals and sacrifices, of kept boys and powerful benefactors. Corvo ignores them all, so does the Outsider. It makes the whispers measurably worse.

Pacing in his bedroom, Emily worries the end of her jacket between her fingers. The silver lock ring, heavy and sharp-edged, catches the candlelight when she hastily turns.

“This is bad, father of mine, I need to do something, my inaction speaks volumes.” Her eyes move from side to side like the answer is hidden in this room somewhere under the wardrobe and she just needs to look better.

The Outsider shifts in his vanity chair at Corvo’s side.

“Everything is fine,” Corvo’s reply is a touch cold for no good reason, and Emily purses her lips before he can apologize.

“People don’t just wander in off the street and stay in the Tower for months, dad, they just don’t. We are not an inn,” she says, accusingly. Corvo almost feels the Outsider buzz uncomfortably, vibrating out of his skin ( _soft_ , _soft_ ) with guilt and humility. He knows those now.

“I can leave, Emily, you are not my minders.” He keeps his voice light, but Corvo, who it just so happened spent a lot of time in that musty guard room drinking tea, hears the plea of _don’t_ _leave_ _me don’t leave me_ hiding in there, the one he so wholeheartedly supports. Corvo snaps his head back toward Emily, who has stopped pacing, at least.

“We’ll invent him a job. Something obscure enough no one would ask and something solitary enough no one would bother him.”

“Like what?” Emily hisses. “We already have a librarian and I don’t think he,” she nods towards the Outsider, “is proficient enough in, well, anything to replace our current staff without stepping on some toes. Firing a loyal servant because I need to make space for this stranger is not suspicious at all.”

This entire affair is so horribly mistimed it makes Corvo’s stomach lurch. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation.

“Speaking of strangers, do you have any input?” The Empress is leaning at one of Corvo’s bed posts and looking out of the window, chewing on her lip.

“Sure, that sounds nice,” the Outsider mumbles under his breath, pressing a palm into his temple.

“What?” Emily releases the chewed-up lip from between her teeth and sticks a finger in there instead. 

The headaches have been getting progressively worse; both Corvo and him have been ignoring the implications, even when his hands shake so much the tea spills onto his knees. He is not stupid.

”Ask Theo,” the Outsider mumbles under his breath, rubbing his eyes with fists like a child but with much more force. It looks painful.

Corvo raises his hands in warning at Emily but she can’t see him; she still isn’t looking at any of them.

“Who’s Theo?” she asks absentmindedly, nibbling on her thumb, already thinking upon Corvo’s proposition. A ship’s horn goes off outside. 

“Who’s Theo?” the Outsider echoes her, sounding just as lost. And he is, in a droning noise inside his head, memories ripping themselves apart and gluing back together, not exactly the way they were, but he can’t remember the difference. He can’t remember anything.

“Sleep on it, Emily, we will further discuss this tomorrow. It’s been a long day,” Corvo hastily says, all but pushing Emily out of the door. She goes without protest, humming something in agreement.

The lock clicks and it’s seemingly all that was holding the Outsider together. He doubles over with a quiet whine, clasping his hands over the ears, fingernails scratching jerkingly at the skin behind them. Corvo is at his side, hovering. No medicine he could procure has helped before and he feels the Outsider’s agony like his own.

Eventually, his breathing evens out some and he carefully lifts his head from his knees. Sweat has bunched his fringe together into damp strands and he cards his fingers through them, shaking ever so slightly. He accepts a cup of warm tea Corvo gives, nursing it in his hands rather than drinking.

He looks like a wet kitten he’d once fished out of the Wrenhaven, walking along the quays of a then yet unfamiliar city. It meowed loud and long enough Corvo had time to hear it, slip down to the edge of water and grab it. The box it has been in was barely holding together, swaying with the water, and disintegrated as soon as Corvo gripped the animal in his palm. Plain, grey and white, weighing absolutely _nothing_. He hid it in the pocket of his coat and could feel it shivering the entire way to the Tower.

The kitten died two days later and Jessamine cried about it for a week. Corvo has no idea how many days _he’s_ got left _._  

“This will pass, I’m sure. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

The Outsider looks into Corvo’s eyes with his own green bloodshot ones and laughs.

“You’re a horrible liar.”

His long fingers touch Corvo’s. There is no jolt of electricity, no thrill of illicit magic, no wind suddenly blowing through his hair, but Corvo knows he will pay for this frivolity at night. This is fine. It’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I work 65 hours a week and update once every full moon let me live


	4. Chapter 4

Oh, yes. The Outsider can’t do anything like Corvo did or Emily does, that is certain. But he can do _things_.

It’s involuntary, accidental, he tell Corvo. Sometimes he looks a person in the eye and knows their deepest secret, like a quiet _hello_ from the Void, a chill running down his spine. Whatever you lost, he can probably find it, or whatever you possess, he can hide exceptionally well. He can always tell where Emily and Corvo are, even if he hasn’t left his chambers the entire day. Flowers wilt in his presence but crows flock to the windows when he is nearby.

His touch gives night terrors, if you’re not careful, and Corvo, apparently, is not. The Outsider doesn’t touch anyone already on a good day, but still takes to wearing higher and higher collars and gloves, so that only his face remains uncovered. The outdated fashion earns him more hushed mockery in the Tower, but then Emily starts wearing them also, and soon the entire court hides their necks and wrists, fighting for the Empress’ favor.

He takes it off for Corvo, though, he takes it all off.

It’s a mystery of sorts, how it happened. Corvo surely was not looking for anything, he’s way too old and has seen way too much for children’s games like love, but he does appreciate companionship. Maybe the Outsider was just curious, maybe his illness that has no name is snapping at his heels, and maybe he is just as comforted by Corvo’s presence. They have no need to explain each other’s scars – the Outsider has seen every one of his and the new body doesn’t hold any.

The Outsider always insists on sleeping in his own bed afterwards, Corvo suspects it’s because he feels guilty when Corvo wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, phantom limbs and rivers of blood feeling so incredibly fresh and real, he palms at his body nervously, checking for injuries. He can’t find them and the other side of the bed is empty and cold. He stays once, and Corvo clings to the Outsider, sweaty and almost crying, while he pets his clammy back with his bare hard, starting the cycle all over again. It’s still worth it, in his opinion.

Emily knows and she doesn’t care; they’ve been drifting apart for a while now. You’d think nothing brings people together closer than murder, but you’d be wrong. Their shared spaces carry the ghosts of their dead, and between the two of them, it’s getting very crowded.

*

On the second day in the Month of Nets, the Outsider can’t get out of bed anymore. Corvo and Emily tensely wait for him at breakfast, minutes ticking by in silence. After ten, Corvo jumps from the table and throws the napkin onto an unused plate, rushing out of the door, while Emily follows him with her eyes and slowly starts on eggs.

“I knew you would come,” his voice is weak and his pulse is thready, when Corvo squeezes his wrist.

There is no getting better from this, whatever this is, and they both know it. Pretending was nice, for a while. They had fun, as much as they could, rolling around in the sheets, with Corvo staying silent when the Outsider called him wrong names or started talking about people long gone. For someone once so stingy with words, he babbled; sex liberated him to talk at Corvo, knowing he pays attention to every word, just like always.

“I will lead you astray,” he gasped in the crook of Corvo’s neck after the first push of his cock, hands scrambling for purchase in the linens. “Don’t listen to anything I say.”

Even if Corvo could talk right then, he wouldn’t. His hips stutter when he feels a barely-there kiss to his collarbone and a tentative tongue, licking up the droplet of his sweat.

“I think the Void hates that I left it,” moaning, the Outsider grasped the bars of the metal headboard, looking like he’s having a lazy Saturday lie-in if not for the unmistakeable rhythmic thrusting. “It’s mad Billie stole me, it- it wants me back.”

“I’m not giving you back,” Corvo whispered, voice so soft in opposition to the relentless push-pull inside the Outsider’s body. He didn’t respond, turning his head away and muffling a groan with his shoulder.

Now, Corvo can’t help but see very little thing that’s different, like overlaying two pictures on top of the other, each tiny inconsistency jumping out thrice as vivid. He’s been always looking at the Outsider through the film of his Void self, while he’s been slowly warping behind it.

“This may be our farewell, Corvo,” his gaze wanders. Corvo’s throat is so full of words, but he doesn’t trust himself with any of them. The Outsider has this small distracted smile on his face, like he knows.

“That’s fine, I suppose. Hard to fault the Void for doing what it’s always done.”

Corvo frowns, nostrils flaring.

“I will try.”

The Outsider laughs, quietly and dryly, going into a small coughing fit after, face going red and blotchy with effort. He seems drained of any energy after it, feebly rolling to the side.

“Look at you, Corvo, always fighting something that shouldn’t be fought.” His voice is warm and fond, and Corvo nervously squeezes his wrist tighter. They have always been on borrowed time, from day one.

“Will I find you in the Void?” Corvo pushes the Outsider’s grown out hair away from his face, wet with sweat. He is ice cold despite the feverish blush.

The Outsider tries to shrug but manages barely a twitch of the shoulder and an eye roll. Corvo still gets the message, a small giggle escaping at the mundanity of it all. None of this is funny and that’s precisely why it is.

If only he knew the Outsider was alive sooner, if only he hasn’t wasted all his time in the sea, trying to reach Dunwall. They could’ve had entire weeks together at the beginning.

They are out of time.

“Corvo,” he calls quietly, and Corvo dives closer, inches from his face. “Trust me, we will meet again. Death is so very pedestrian, I, however, am anything but.”

Corvo huffs, pressing their foreheads together. How very typical.

“Even on your deathbed you can’t stop being a little shit.”

The Outsider opens his mouth to say something, but doubles over coughing, wet and heavy, and the hand he kept at his lips comes away red with blood. He looks at it with great curiosity, focused on thick splatters, shining with pinkish spit. Corvo can’t even breathe.

“You know,” the Outsider squeezes out, wiping at his mouth with the back of his soiled palm, “all things being equal, I prefer dying of a blade.”

Corvo can hear the maids walking outside, going about their daily chores and gossiping, because their entire world has the sheer audacity to be not falling apart this very second. The Outsider slowly and tiredly swallows saliva, Adam’s apple bobbing with a painful motion that makes Corvo wince, blinking so very slowly.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Corvo nods and shrugs, squeezing his hand tighter. The girls in the hallway burst out in giggles, shushing each other between peals of laughter, and Corvo has nothing better to do than cry.

*

The Outsider dies, like people do: stupidly, painfully, for no good reason at all. He dies again, this time in the quiet company of one man who had once held his favor. Corvo dies a little, too.

There is no bright light, no cracks of thunder, no mournful whale songs in the harbor. The Abbey of Everyman does not burn an effigy in celebration, continuing to stew in revolting hatred, forever blissfully unaware of its own obsolescence. The Outsider dies and it changes absolutely nothing.

Corvo meets the Empress the same day in the doorway to the Throne Room. She quietly says she’s sorry, not meeting his eyes, and he wants to believe her so badly he almost does.

*

Corvo thinks the gazebo is cursed; all present don’t argue, because they have seen what happened. There are no dramatic bloodstains, just a plaque. It’s funny how he doesn’t even know if Jessamine is inside or he’s been talking to cold stone this entire time; he was obviously and notably absent for the funeral. Should’ve asked the Outsider about that, before.

“You can’t bury him here,” Emily hisses, jealous and livid. Her cheeks are ruddy, stray hairs unfurling from the braid. The morning is bright and crisp and almost mocking in its uncaring beauty, casting gentle light onto the white marble.

She squeezes her fists tighter and the Mark flares up behind the wrap, making Corvo’s foolish heart skip a beat. Emily nervously reaches out to rub the ends of her hair, pacing back and forth, and every time she turns the floor seems to shrink a little.

“She died here, dad,” her voice is full of tears and Corvo doesn’t look but suspects her eyes are as well. She hasn’t called him that for so long. “You can’t. Just can’t.”

Emily doesn’t say it was his fault, she doesn’t need to. It was.

“And I understand, you probably have your own reasons, but I don’t want to know them,” her voice is notably raising in pitch; the guard closest to them briefly turns, but resumes his watch after Corvo stares him down. “Frankly, I don’t care about them. Letting him stay was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“How lucky are you then,” Corvo can’t help but quip. Emily furiously lunges toward him, looming despite being shorter.

“This is not a place to collect your dead lovers, have some damn dignity and bury him anywhere else. Not here,” she hisses in a low voice. “I refuse.”

She doesn’t quite storm off, but it feels like it anyway. Corvo averts his eyes as she looks over her shoulder before disappearing from the view inside the courtyard.

“I have failed you,” he says to no one in particular. Nobody replies and the morning is just as stunning and sharp, having the nerve not to mirror his mood. A trawler slowly cuts the river from behind the Tower, waves gently licking its sides, and Corvo feels just as adrift but with far less purpose.

“This is not fair.” He rubs the back of his left hand, clear of anything incriminating, and just feels thin skin move over the tendons. It’s woefully unfinished. It’s not enough.

Corvo rubs at his dry eyes and leaves in Emily’s stead. The beautiful morning becomes a beautiful day and the Outsider’s chair remains in Corvo’s room like a headstone he never had. It’s not enough, but this is fine. It’s fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be longer can you tell


End file.
